the_archivist | Fantasy AU

Fantasy AU

The Great Library overlooks the crystal blue of the oasis, on a ridge of brown and red rock, impossible for anyone visiting to miss. Where once it had stood alone, over the centuries a town had grown up around it, a bustling place of markets and shrines and schools for various crafts. A place of learning in the middle of the unforgiving desert.

The Library itself is an imposing building of polished white stone and gold, pillars and columns and perfect edges, towering into the sky. It's a sprawling complex, with the temple on one side, and accommodation for the priests and visiting dignitaries and ambassadors. The Library itself, with it's many books and scrolls and letters, with it's classrooms and lecture halls, settled on the other. It looks bright and airy and pristine.

That is not where Martin and Tim are taken when they're dragged out of the cart, still cuffed as though they're violent criminals rather than scholars and masters of lineage who wouldn't bow to a tyrant.

Instead they're taken to a bare room and given plain unadorned linen garments to wear, bathed, and then taken through winding hallways underground.

The door that greets them is ancient heavy black stone, decorated with a sigil of an eye. The guards snort and talk about fresh meat for the monster within, and as they're pushed inside, they hear jokes about how long they'll ask before the monster gets them.

The guard with them pulls them further into the room and the Archive is revealed to them. It's vast, shelves upon shelves of boxes and papers and writings of every kind. They seem to have no end, but the guard pulls them through the hallways until they reach another set of doors.

"That's your room," he says, gesturing to one of the doors, the one with the normal looking wooden door. Nothing special about it, and when they look inside there's a couple of beds, and a bathroom beyond. Plain, but not uncomfortable.

It's the other door that is more concerning. This one the same black stone as the first door and etched with runes and sigils in a swirling pattern that is hard to keep track of.

"You'll find it in there. You know your jobs. Try to survive at least a month. I've got money on you."

There are keys pressed into Martin's hands, different sizes and shapes and designs, and then the guard leaves them both alone in the Archive.

"We are going to die," Tim sighs.

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"We're not going to die," Martin says it automatically, the second half of a call and response that's been going on since they found out they were bound for the Archive. In another life, in another place, Martin would have thrilled at the sight of endless rooms full of knowledge available to them. Now it comes with a climbing sense of dread.

How much will they see before they monster they're meant to attend decides that they're better suited to feed its appetite?

The keys are heavy in his hand and it's so tempting to suggest they hide and hope that maybe the world will forget about them. But that's not an option. They are scholars and even if this isn't their home they have a legacy to protect. The door to the Archivist is heavy and elaborate in a way that makes it hard to look away. Martin is sure that even if they went into their rooms and closed the door he'd find himself gravitating towards it unconsciously.

The only thing worse than death would be dying as a coward. He grips the keys tightly and forces a smile. "I'll go in first, see what it might want." The guard seemed to think a month was possible and Martin didn't want to risk those odds by sending Tim into that room when they were both so raw from the loss of everything they ever knew. Martin, at least, didn't channel his pain into anger as easily.

Before Tim can stop him he's making for the door, the right key falling into his hand like it was meant to be there. A bit unsettling but he doesn't stop, doesn't give Tim a chance to try and pull him away and knock some sense into him. The doors swing open easily and Martin steps inside and stops in his tracks as he takes in the sight of the being sat on the throne in the center of the room and realizes he's being seen in turn.

"H... hello. I'm... I'm one of your new scholars. Martin Blackwood." And silently, Martin prays he's not about to die because he doesn't know how to greet something that isn't quite human.

The Archivist has sat here for so long, hours blending into days, into years in centuries and he is still here, trapped and exhausted and alone.

He's lost track of how long it has been since he last saw someone. There have been people, attendants and scholars, but their faces have merged into each other over the years. They never did much to distinguish themselves. Avoided him as much as they could until his hunger overwhelmed him. And then the cycle would repeat.

He looks up when the door opens, unsure if this is an Audience with some rich man, or one of the priests here to gawk at the monster and gloat over how well their ancestors had restrained it, or some new attendant wanting to peek at their charge before they lock him back up again for as long as possible.

What he isn't expecting is a greeting. He blinks at the man, tilts his head, the first threads of curiosity coming alive in him. More than he has had in a long time.

The Archivist looks at him and Martin flinches but only because when the guards talked about it he had imagined something rather more monstrous than the man seated before him.

Maybe it's foolish of him but Martin cannot look at this figure chained to his throne and see anything but a person who might be even more trapped than he and Tim are. Describing him as an it feels wrong and before he can help himself, Martin gives into a sudden impulse to get closer. He knows deep down that this might get him killed but... he steps nearer, offering a shaky smile to the Archivist as the door swings shut behind him. It's just the two of them now and he has no idea what to expect.

"There's two of us two serve you," He says, as if this were a normal chat with a new lead Scholar. "Me and Tim. Or, well, attend you I guess? Though I don't know what you need. Or if we're allowed to take off that... muzzle thing to ask you." It's all nervous chatter, the sort of thing that he's been reprimanded for in the past. Now there's no one to care except Tim, out in the hall, and Martin has no idea what he's doing. If the Archivist even cares who is tending to his space.

"They didn't really tell us anything before they threw us in here and told us not to die too soon."

He's talking. It takes the Archivist a little while to work out what language he's speaking, even if he can understand it flawlessly. It's just... been a long time since anyone talked to him except to demand answers while offering nothing in return. It's confusing.

Is this some sort of trick? But what could it do? He's been here for a thousand years. He is already so broken. What could the priests hope to get out of this?

The man approaches, his feet echoing on the polished obsidian floor. It doesn't matter who approaches the throne, there are always the same number of steps. One of the room's peculiarities.

Attend to him? His keepers more like, trapped in here with a wild beast. That's what they see him as anyway.

He snorts at the man's words, leans his head back against the throne and shudders at the rattling of the chains.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to go on." Martin shrugs and takes another step closer, fear fading as curiosity began to rise up in its place. If he's not dead yet then that seems like a good sign.

The room is opulent, a grand spectacle that doesn't seem to benefit the Archivist in the slightest, which means it's likely there for others instead of him. Martin's feet touch the stairs and he realizes he's crossed the entire length of the room. That feeling of being watched is so much stronger from this lack of distance, the weight of an unseen stare making the space between his shoulder blades itch even though he knows that there is no one in the room but the two of them. The ring of keys feels heavy in his hands, the clink of the metal muffled as he holds them against his new robes.

"If you'd like, I can go." He says, feeling foolish for talking at a man who can't even say anything back. Though he seems capable of expressing himself in small ways. "Though, if you need something you can nod and I'll try and help you."

It had been his room once, truly his. The place where kings and peasants alike could come and beg him to receive their stories, to add them to the Archives. It had been his home and now it is his prison and his humiliation.

His gaze flicks towards the keys, recognising them all from so many years. He hates them all vehemently, but seeing them is the only time he usually gets even a modicum of freedom. He's lost track of how long it's been since he last left this room. Years? Sometimes they would let him out into the Archives themselves, but that hasn't happened in a long time.

He shakes his head violently when the man offers to leave, making the chains rattle. Don't go. Don't leave. He is so tired and hollow.

Looking up at the Archivist as he shakes his head hard enough to rattle his chains, Martin wonders at the wisdom of throwing captives in here and giving them all the keys. Maybe it's a game of temptation to see however long it takes for some soft hearted fool to unlock each chain and release him to do follow his urges unfettered.

They are both captives of the empire, expected to do the work of keeping each other imprisoned so that their guards could sit back and relax. And Martin, whose temper doesn't burn hot and loud like Tim's but instead simmers quietly. He's lost everything and now... now what does he have to lose?

The right key falls into his hand easily and before he can second guess himself, Martin ascends the steps and slots the key into the muzzle keeping the Archivist silent. "I'm... I'm going to take off your muzzle for a bit. I'd appreciate it if you didn't eat me or anything." He says as he gently pulls the contraption away and looks at the face of the monster. "There. That's better, I think."

The muzzles is tight against his skin, so there's no way to avoid being touched when Martin reaches in to unlock it. He flinches at the brief contact, even as part of him wants to lean into it. It has been so long, but whenever the muzzle has been unlocked before, it has never been with care. There are plenty of people who enjoy the thrill of having a monster unable to escape them.

The hateful device is pulled away, although the marks of it still remain around his jaw. He sucks in a breath, clean air, and his tongue flicks out over his lips.

"I'm-" his voice comes out hoarse and grating. It has been months since the last time they took it off. "I'm not some creature of the Flesh to sink my teeth into you."

The monster of the Archives, the thing that the guards are convinced will kill him and Tim both before the end of the month has a rather pleasant voice for all that he sounds a bit rough, a fact that is much to Martin's surprise. The muzzle carelessly dropped to the floor as he takes in the sight of the Archivist and in his mind it is becoming harder and harder to think of him as a beast.

"Well, we spent the whole trip here being told how you were going to kill us horribly." It was the loophole that allowed them to kill their captive scholars without raising a hand to do it themselves. "I wasn't sure what to expect, honestly."

The Archivist stares after the muzzle as it hits the ground like one more piece of trash. He hates it. Most people when they remove it hold it with reverence, the thing that stops the monster's tongue when they've heard more than their fill.

He drags his eyes back to the man in front of him, curiosity burning in his eyes.

"Fiend of darkness and shadow with a thousand eyes is a popular one," he says, voice dry with unhappy amusement.

"That sounds like a bit of a a mouthful," He says, aware that this is possibly the oddest conversation he's ever shared with someone. He's talking with a man everyone insists is a monster and so far he's been rather civil.

Far more so than the guards who dragged them here.

"Is there something else I can call you besides all that? Archivist seems a bit formal when we're going to be working together." Maybe that's a stretch but if he really is a heartless thing with a bottomless hunger then Martin wants him on his side. The empire took his home and everything familiar from him and he'll be dammed if he allows them to dictate who he trusts. "And is there anything I can get you? Maybe some tea or water?"

That gets a soft snort of near-laughter out of him. It isn't funny, except it's hilarious right now, when this is the first person who has spoken to him, spoken with> him in centuries.

He considers that for a moment, bites his lip. He had a name, he thinks. but that was a long time ago and he doesn't... he doesn't remember. He isn't sure if anyone remembers anymore. And even if he did... there is power in names and he doesn't want to give that up to some stranger he's only just met because they showed him the slightest bit of kindness.

"Archivist is fine," he says finally. "And... tea? I'd like tea."

Edited 2019-05-31 12:18 (UTC)

"Archivist it is."

How long has it been since anyone treated him with anything that came close to civility? Martin wouldn't wish this confinement on his worst enemies. Well, maybe he would. But right now the Archivist is the closest thing to an ally they have and he isn't about to go burning that bridge.

"I'll get you that tea," He says, tucking the keys into his belt and taking a step back. "I'll leave that thing off you for now, too. I'm sure it's been a while since you got any fresh air."

Archivist is a damn sight better than monster or fiend, or a thousand other names they have called him. Depended on the year, on the dynasty. Some were prettier than others. All of them were hated.

His face falls when the man steps away because he's sure this is it. He'll leave and just... won't come back. Not until the next monarch or priest wants an audience. They never do come back.

"It- it was nice to meet you."

How long have they left him alone like this? Chained up and muzzled so he doesn't even have the comfort of his own voice in the silence? For all that Martin has suffered since the invasion he has always had Tim there with him to keep the worst of the desolate feelings at bay.

So he turns and smiles for the Archivist, tries to look reassuring. "It was nice to meet you, too," he says and it is the honest truth. "I'll be back in just a bit with that tea and then we can see about maybe getting your arms unshackled for a while as well."

And he does intend to come back, no matter how much Tim shouts at him for being an idiot and charging in there. Not just because he wants the Archivist to think kindly of him but because he doesn't want to be cruel.

So when he steps out of that chamber and into the hall and the weight of those unseen eyes lightens he straightens up, looks at Tim and speaks. "I need to make some tea. For the Archivist."

He can taste the truth of it in his words and his expression fills with a deep, hungry hope. it's stupid, he knows. He shouldn't hope. He is trapped here, and eventually this man will be gone and it will hurt all the more for the Archivist having had hope.

He hasn't put the muzzle on again though. And he watches as Martin Blackwood walks away and the door closes, leaving him alone and in darkness once more.

Tim is waiting when Martin gets out, and he scoffs at the words and grabs Martin's shoulder. "Are you crazy? It's a monster. You know what it does to people? Or was I the only one to see the remains of the previous Attendants hanging from the roof?"

Edited 2019-05-31 13:49 (UTC)

That reminder of the fate of their predecessors makes him wince but he doesn't back down as he looks at Tim with a stubborn set to his jaw. "He's a prisoner, Tim! Just like us." He feels guilty for how those figures on the roof faded from his mind when he was speaking to the Archivist.

"And, frankly, I think we'll stand a better chance of surviving if we get on his good side." It was the pragmatic answer, the one that Tim would hopefully accept even if the truth was so much simpler.

He felt for the Archivist even knowing it might get him killed.

"So I'm going to get him some tea and hope that being kind will make a difference in our odds."

"Yeah, because it's a monster that eats people. There's reasons monsters get locked up. It's so they can't hurt anyone else."

And Martin had been in there for five minutes and had apparently bonded with it. Great.

Unfortunately, his argument makes sense. He still thinks it's stupid, but... if nothing else it might hake their grisly deaths a bit quicker.

"Fine."

It's so hard to think of the Archivist as a monster. Maybe if he had been more threatening or hadn't looked so sickly it would have been easier to close himself off from feeling anything.

It- It was nice to meet to you.

Martin was sure that whatever the Archivist was he wasn't pure evil like everyone said. "Trust me, it'll be okay," he says, reaching up to squeeze Tim's wrist. "Now let's find the kitchen in here. I'll make tea for all of us and then we can figure out what to do from there."

One step at a time, that's how they are going to make it through this.

Tim sighs heavily and clasps his hand with Martin's. He still worries, and fuck, neither of them should be here, except his pride wouldn't allow him to swear loyalty to the tyrant who had cut a swathe through his people. It wouldn't let him write that bastard into the legacies of history, make him out to be a-a descendent of gods.

The kitchen is nearby - it's not particularly spacious, but it has the bare essentials, and enough food for a week until the next delivery is brought to them. And there is tea, a jar of fragrant leaves.

There is a comfort in the routine in making tea. Setting the water to boil and getting everything ready is something Martin enjoys. It's a simple little ceremony but it usually helps center him, though this time it leaves him aching with homesickness. Back home the kitchens would be alive with chatter from their fellow scholars. Now it's quiet and even the smell of the leaves is enough to make a lump form in his throat.

He tries to breathe through it, keeps his back to Tim as he fusses with the leaves and water so he doesn't see him dabbing tears away from the corner of his eyes.

Once he has Tim set up with his own cup Martin does exactly as he promised the Archivist and returns with a tea tray. He even managed to find some biscuits that he's sincerely hoping aren't stale. The door, still unlocked opens easily enough even with his hands full.

"I'm back," he says, "I didn't know how you took your tea so I... kind of brought a little of everything. Though I couldn't find any lemons so no luck there."

The Archivist looks up sharply when the door opens again, his eyes wide and openly shocked when Martin steps back into the room. That- what? No-one comes back. None of them come back and want to speak to him. They definitely don't bring tea. Most of them hadn't even let him drink water.

"You- you came back..."

"I said I would, didn't I? I'm sorry if it took a while."

Martin approaches the throne and sets the tray on the floor for lack of anywhere else to place it. The shock on the Archivist's face makes him even more sure that he's made the right choice. Of course a man might act monstrously when he's been treated like one for so long.

"Do you like cream or sugar in your tea?" And he might have to unshackle one of his arms to let him drink it with any sort of dignity.

"No-one- people don't come back."

Not with- with tea, and kind words. They usually take one look at him and then hide until the Archives takes it toll on them.

"Both. Please." He thinks so anyway. It's been a long time since anyone asked and some of the things he has forgotten, the bits of humanity that he hasn't needed.

"I don't really like lying. Unless something has happened to me I'll try and keep my word."

The tea is prepared with a splash of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar, all carefully stirred up before Martin fumbles for the keys again. This is the risky part, releasing one of his arms so he can drink.

It would be so easy for him to-

No. None of that. Martin unlocks the shackle and pulls it open on hinges that creak from a lack of use. "Do you think you can hold the cup without me?"

"But I'm- I'm a monster."

That's what they'd told him over and over again for a thousand years. A monster that should be chained and muzzled like a vicious dog. He had been something else once, something revered and appreciated. But maybe that had been wrong?

He gasps when the cuff is unfastened. The skin underneath is raw. He doesn't heal as well as he used to. There's only enough energy to keep him sustained, so the wounds remain sore and painful.

"I think so."

"Maybe, but so far you haven't hurt me or Tim so you're a step up on everyone else we've met lately."

Martin can't help frowning at the wounds as he unlocks the other cuff as well. It can't be healthy to leave him hurting like this all the time. Even if he is some people eating monster, if he's so valuable they ought to be working harder to keep him well.

He offers the teacup without comment, still crouched at the Archivist's feet as he stands ready to catch things if his hands slip.

"Is there anything that might help you feel better? Your hands-" he fumbles for the right words. "They look painful."

"You've been here for half an hour. You don't know that. Maybe I will." Does he do that sort of thing? Maybe. He knows that he's still alive without food or water, so maybe he is killing and eating them. Or maybe it's the Archives draining them to sustain him.

The Archivist reaches for the cup and takes it. His hand shakes and it's a struggle to keep it steady. He does manage to take a sip though and his eyes close. For a moment he can almost imagine that it is Before. He wonders what happened to his tea set. It had been a gift from a Priest-King across the sea, black polished clay inlaid with deep green. Probably stolen.

He glances down at his wrist, considering. "They are. But they've been painful for a long time so I stopped noticing."

"Yes, but if you do kill me then you'll have to deal with Tim all on your own. And between you and me-" Martin says as he settles himself at the base of the dais, as if this man sipping tea didn't just threaten him. "He makes terrible tea and he can get a bit surly when he's unhappy." And their captors are counting on the Archivist doing their job for them, as if using someone else as the tool of execution will somehow make them less responsible for the death of two scholars.

Martin is very determined to survive and he plans to drag Tim along with him if only to spite the people responsible for destroying everything.

"I'm not sure what they left us for medicine but I'll try and unchain your hands so you have a chance to heal up. I'm afraid I'll have to secure them again at the end of the day but at least that way you can have a bit more freedom." It's a pitiful offer but it's the only thing he has to use as a bargaining chip. "And I can bring you things you might want, as long as they're inside the Archives."

The Archivist tilts his head, regarding Martin for a moment, lips set in a line of confusion. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know why this person is- is different. "I'm used to... unpleasantness," he says quietly. "It doesn't scare me."

Even fear is deadened for him now. He feels hollow. What more can they do to him?

And the offer to release him just adds to that confusion. No-one before has ever offered to do that. No-one has offered him care or courtesy. "Why?" he asks finally, and he misses the fizz and hum of power that should be there, but he can't muster the power anymore. "You could bring me books?" he says softly. "Or- or statements."

He says it hesitantly, hardly daring to imagine that he might actually do. He'll probably report to the priests and they'll find a new way to restrict him.

"Because I feel like helping you is the right thing to do." Beyond all his justifications, the logical reasons he's told both Tim and himself that is the honest truth he can't deny. Martin knows this could backfire in a hundred different ways but when he looks at the Archivist, chained amidst all this splendor he can't resist that urge to help.

He's always been a soft touch, the one who would stay later to tidy up after the other scholars or check up on someone who hadn't been feeling well. The one who would take spiders outside instead of trying to kill them.

"Being cruel doesn't seem like a good use of anyone's time. I'd be happy to bring you things to read."

The Archivist regards him curiously when he says that. He still doesn't understand. Why would someone want to help a monster? He knows the stories that have been told about him, some of them at least. They'd taken great pleasure in letting him know what they were telling the people about him, once they'd sealed Elias away and left him alone. Spirits and gods and elements transformed through their words into demons and monsters and beasts.

"I- I'd like that. It's been a very long time."

And maybe if Martin brings him the right things to read, he might heal a little, regain a modicum of strength, although the seals siphon most of his power away from him.

"I'll see what I can do." It's not a difficult request to fulfill. The Archivist could have asked for something more difficult but instead he wants something to read. How could Martin say no to that when they're stuck within a great Archive full of things to read.

A great big Archive that looked like it hasn't been properly organized in far too long.

Well, at least it's something to fill the days they're stuck in here.

"Is your tea alright? I made it the way we made it back home-" An ache in his chest at the thought of home, one he pushes down. Mourning can come later when he isn't here. "If you like it differently, let me know."

It's so easy that Jon almost feels a little bad about it. Surely someone must have warned Martin that he shouldn't be given statements and stories? But no, it's been a thousand years. Maybe they're just so certain of the bonds, or they've grown careless over the centuries. Still, it's to his advantage.

"It's lovely," Jon replies. "I haven't had tea in- they barely let me have water except before an Audience," he says quietly. He can hear the hurt in Martin's voice. "What happened?"

"That hardly seems right. I'll try and bring you some every day if I can." Provided the guards don't catch him at this, that Tim doesn't lock him in their quarters to try and make him see reason. Promises are flimsy when he has a sword hanging over his head but they're all he has.

The question catches him off guard, loosens the mask he's been wearing since they were sentenced to the Archives. His mouth tightens before he ducks his head, trying to hide. "They invaded and-" He swallows. "They wanted us to kneel down and tell their lies and we refused."

They are scholars and lies disrespect everything they were taught.

"They sent us here because it's bad luck to kill scholars, you see."

"I'd like that." It's said honestly. He doesn't need it, not like humans do. But it is... uncomfortable. And he likes it. And it satisfies him in a way that statements and magic just can't.

He tilts his head a little, curious as the man talks. He can feel a tiny hint of the power that he should have. It's barely noticeable, but it's there for a second before the bonds siphon it away again.

"They're right. It is bad luck to kill one of Beholding's protected." Scholars and storytellers. They were all under his god's protection. Or they had been. "They sent you here because they thought I'd kill you, didn't they?"

The Beholding. The name sounds strange to hear, whatever it means to the Archivist. Martin remembers being raised on the stories of old monsters and demons that fed on humans. The heroes who threw them down and built an empire out of their bones. Seeing the Archivist sitting there, his quiet requests and intelligent eyes Martin wonders how much of those stories was true and how much was written to justify their actions.

At the question, Martin nods. There's little point to lying about their circumstances. "They thought that using you to do their dirty work would keep the blood off their hands."

He remembers those bodies strung up on the roof and wonders if he and Tim will join them. How many were prisoners like them. If any of them ever thought to try and befriend the Archivist rather than cower and hide away. "I know I can't offer you much, but I can bring you tea and statements to read every day for as long as we're here."

Jon's eyes narrow at the naked curiosity that he feels from Martin. It isn't strange; a scholar should be curious, and his patron prizes that above all else, but it worries him. "You've never heard of the Beholding, have you? The Ceaseless Watcher?"

Surely they cannot have forgotten all of them, the great gods which oversaw the world? Even with their Avatars sealed, the gods existed. He can still feel the Eye watching him, faint though it is when he is like this. The thought hurts him. His life had long since been given in service . to his master, so to have his god be forgotten...

"They think that I am their tool to be used as they wish." He gives a soft snort of derision and stares down at the chains which wrap around him. "I suppose they aren't wrong."

Not that he intends to kill anyone. The Archive itself handles that quite well enough. But with that offer... He barely dares to hope that it might be true. But if Martin will bring him statements... "I'd like that. It's been... it's been a long time since they let me read."

"I'm sorry, I haven't. I mean there are the stories about demons and monsters but-" But they're stories. The sort of things told to make little children behave and no stray too far from their parents. Those old stories... they never encompass those names where Martin can hear the emphasis that makes them titles and not just names. Something to respect.

Silently, he wonders just how much has been lost.

"I'm sorry they use you like this," he says and it is completely sincere. "And that they don't even let you read anything. That's just- I can't imagine what it's like." To be trapped in one place with nothing to read or do and no one to talk to. If it had been him Martin is sure he would have gone mad long ago.

"I'll bring you whatever you like. And I'll try to let you stay unchained as much as I can." He's going to have to learn the patterns of the priests, how far in advance they'll be warned of audiences for the Archivist. Martin wants to keep him on their side and that means he needs to learn as much as he can about the goings on as soon as possible. Tim will call him foolish but he knows it's better than despair and waiting for the inevitable.

His grip tightens around the teacup, the full weight of it hitting him momentarily. This man, this scholar, doesn't know Beholding. Doesn't know of the great Eye that Jon serves. It shakes him, makes his stomach lurch and he wonders how much else has changed in a thousand years.

"Demons? What kind of demons? And if you haven't heard of the Beholding, what about- about Forsaken? Or Mother of Puppets, or Esmentiras?"

Surely- surely one of them must be known. Must be recognised.

"Can't have the Archivist learning too much," he says in response to the apology, the words coming out bitter and tired. "Might let it Know some dangerous secret." He lips curl into a sneer, and his voice is hoarse. "Better to starve it instead, until it breaks."

"It seems- It's a waste, keeping you here when you know so much." Those names, those beings that a thousand years have buried and twisted until they're unrecognizable. And here sits the ultimate source of knowledge and they're-

They're squandering it.

"Demons that- that feed on you. On what you're afraid of until there's nothing left." There were so many stories, all of them warning against the evils these monsters carried. "The Thing Behind The Door and, well, the spiders of course."

How useless he feels when The Archivist asks him this and he has nothing to offer. Dammit.

"Could you-" He feels foolish even asking, but the words tumble out before he can help himself. "Could you tell me about them?"

"They don't care. This used to be a place of learning. Anyone was welcome as long as they sought knowledge. Now it's a dusty tomb so the priests can live in luxury." The scorn in his voice is acidic. This isn't a living shrine to knowledge and the Beholding anymore. They don't teach and learn. They don't contribute to the Archive of all Knowledge.

It is a curious thing to hear how they have been twisted in the thousand years since he'd been sealed away. He'll have to find out more. "Fear is a potent thing. And is something that we feed on." There's no point lying about that. "But it isn't everything that we are. Stories. They're what sustains me. Stories and knowledge."

He smiles a little at the descriptions that Martin gives, and at the plea. He likes teaching. Not as much as he likes learning, but there's nothing really that compares to new knowledge for him. "Of course. The Thing Behind the Door would be Esmentiras. It-Is-Lies, or the Spiral. Madness and the feeling that your mind is lying to you. And also holy trances, dream-visions. Beyond the mundanity of the world. Spiders are Mother of Puppets. The Web. Control, plans, manipulation. The feeling that you are caught in a web that you can't see. And Diplomacy, negotiation. Politics."

Eyes drift shut as he listens to the Archivist's words, commits them to memory in the hopes that he can write this all down later. If the priests left things for them to write with. He wonders if anyone has thought to ask questions like this of the Archivist before. Probably not going by how he speaks of the priests with such disdain.

Not that Martin blames him, not when the Archivist is chained and muzzled for reasons he can't truly understand.

A waste. What an absolute waste.

There is a balance that Martin is starting to see, the good equal to the bad the stories held. Demons of madness who also offered visions. Manipulation and Diplomacy. And all of it locked away inside the Archivist's mind where no one has ever bothered to look. He chew his lip, worrying the skin there as he thought about what he was about to ask.

"Would you tell me more? N-not for nothing, but- If I bring you things and help you? I..." He wanted to learn. He wanted this so badly he could taste it, this information that had been purposely purged from the world.

It has been so long since he had such an attentive listener. People had used to hang on his every word, had recorded everything he said as though it were gospel. There is something gratifying about it, having someone listen to him again, like there is value in what he says beyond what rich men will pay a priest.

"Of course," he says, and the eagerness in his voice borders on desperation. He will gladly tell Martin all he wants to know if he just... just visits. Talks to him. Gives something to break the endless painful monotony.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Fantasy AU

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